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Bach: The French Suites

by Devon E Mattys

Glenn Gould’s fingers are my only friends these days
they’re the only ones who’ll still come out and play
and what merriment I derive, what feeling
when I turn on the machine and set the disc to spinning

between the notes I hear it whirring in the darkness of my room
the lift of his fingers reaching out to me through the gloom
whir and hum and buzz echo off floor and ceiling!
in the rest between an end and a beginning

spin, disc, spin to incapacitate the world, whir and hum!
staccato notes and lifts and rests, index finger, middle finger, thumb!
round and round the disc will go
trills spilling out, bleeding and blending with the whir

the cover of it is unjustly worn, and prematurely old
down one side a gash, down the front a fold
and there he’s beauty-striding to and fro
across the cover, away from the music, from me, towards an unseen “her”

and slowly now the music fades,
sleepy, it’s retiring for the day
and then he his fingers slow...
and, beauty-striding as on the cover, goes.

10/14/2003

Posted on 10/15/2003
Copyright © 2024 Devon E Mattys

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Jeanne Marie Hoffman on 10/16/03 at 03:59 PM

A nice tribute to the music :)

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